


Rosemary and Rue

by wyrdo



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Blood Mage no Seisen | Dragon Age: Dawn of the Seeker
Genre: Anniversary of Byron's Death, F/M, I think., Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Language of Flowers, Poetry, no candles though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyrdo/pseuds/wyrdo
Summary: These are vignettes on the Right Hand of the Divine, as she wrestles with old prejudices, her own and the rest of the world's and because there just isn't enough in the DA world about the love of Cassandra's life.  The person that showed her that flowers, candles and poetry were not something she should choose to live without.A gift for IncreasingLight who encouraged me to do it even though I could never match her own treatise on Floriology and everything I do is slow. And for IntrovertedWife who posts on a breakneck schedule a story that is so captivating that i tend to forget it isn't real (and who gave me my first gift on AO3).Ooh, I should have mentioned that this assumes you know the basic plot of Dawn of the Seeker.  It happens in between the bulk of DoS and the Cassandra vignettes in DA II.  You shouldn't need more than you can get from the DA Wiki on the story, but i still highly recommend the video.  You can buy it on Amazon...





	1. As Warriors Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IncreasingLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/gifts), [IntrovertedWife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Floriology is an ancient art, the language of flowers. Poetry is a thinking man's art. Most would not expect Cassandra to be interested in either.
> 
> They would be wrong.

**Val Royeau, Summerday 9:23 Dragon**

Cassandra stood over Byron's stone, a mix of roses, asphodel, marigold and rosemary flowers in her hand, forgotten.

She simply stared at the stone, or rather, what lay before the stone. Somebody had been here before her. Probably on the actual day Byron fell. Unlike her, who was nearly nine days late having been on business until last night or early this morning.

This was no nosegay, selected in a florist's shop, somebody had planted rosemary, arborvitae and Rue as well red poppies just popping from the soil. They had not just planted them, but tended them as well. Cassandra groaned and stomped her foot, staring at the bouquet in her hands.

Whoever did it, they'd clearly known what they were saying and she idly wondered who this regretful friend of Byron's was, really. And the color, the design, the red poppies, green cedar of arborvitae, the use of green rosemary and mustard colored rue wove a pattern that mixed with the earthy undertone of the arborvitae and the nasal tang of rosemary. It told of a great deal of work, a talent with the natural world, and the soul of a poet. Someone who, like her, felt guilt over Byron's loss and who considered him a friend and swore to remember his sacrifice. They were not just a poet, but an artist, a master gardener.

The riot of mismatched color in her hand paled in comparison and though the sentiment differed slightly, the comparative artistry made her want to hide what she had spent hours on. She stared at the flowers in her hand and then at the careful artistry before her then back to her hands. She held a red and a white rose, symbolic of a year passing. the white asphodel roughly equivalent to the rue and the yellow marigold, symbolic of pain and grief but genuinely clashing awfully with the purple rosemary flowers, her promise not to forget.

She fell to her knees, wanted to throw her thrice-damned mismatched flowers away in jealousy. She put her hand on the stone and savored the scent of ceder and rosemary drifting around her with musty rue underneath.

The scent of agony and pain, grief and sorrow brought tears to her eyes and she gasped. Whoever they were, they had skill. He, or she, was an artist and the soil was his canvas. She wiped her face, the wind suddenly in her eyes.

She stood again, this was no time for tears. Gently she pulled the red and the white rose out of the crushed nosegay in her hand and leaned each against the stone then moved to toss the rest.

"I wouldn't throw away such a sentiment," a male voice stopped her movement and she jumped. In a single movement, tassets flaring, Cassandra spun, dropping into a fighting stance. Her sword leapt to her hand. 

The mage behind her lifted both hands and took a step back. His long fingers encased not in gauntlets, but in green and brown work gloves and his green eyes wide. She was reminded of the first time she met him.

"Galyan," she said, sheathing her sword and dashing again at her eyes again. She looked past him to the Templar leaning against the wall of a mausoleum, cleaning his boots with a stick. 

"Cassandra." Demons take her, but just listening to his oddly accented Orlesian made her toes curl. 

His interest in the tips of his shoes suggested unease... "I was, uh..." he waved toward a large watering can standing beside the gate. "I was going to wait until you left and then... But I couldn't let you destroy the poetry in your hands."

He stepped forward, eyes on the plants she held. One long finger traced the bloom on the asphodel. "You still feel responsible." he said, his eyes finally meeting hers. She WAS responsible. Had she not decided she could take on an assembled group of blood mages. Had she not let her anger and hatred cloud her decision making. If she had only grabbed the child and run.

Her gut clenched. The poet in green and yellow landscaping was Galyan? Surely no. Surely in six months spent together touring Orlais with Beatrix and the next six months of letters she would have already known he spoke the language of flowers. That he could create beauty and poetry from the green plants and emotion out of the scents of nature.

"You did this?" her eyes searched his and she wanted more than ever to plant a kiss on his broad face.

As he nodded, Cassandra felt the ground shift beneath her. There were suddenly butterflies in her stomach. "If you had come just two days later, the poppies would have bloomed." He said. Galyan studied the ground while she studied his face. He was, well, he was perfect.

And the maker had a terrible sense of humor.

"May I?" the mage asked, green eyes meeting hers again, hands reaching toward the hideous mess of stalks in her hands.

Unable to look away, her numb fingers released the makeshift bouquet in his hands.

"It's...not very good." Cassandra swallowed hard, reaching for something, anything.

Galyan's eyes fell to the flowers he had taken. "Though its color be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service..." As he spoke, he separated the asphodel and marigolds out, handing them back to her then took a breath to complete his thought.

"...and place it while there is time." Cassandra finished. Thakura had been an obscure Seheran poet of the last age. By Andraste why was the maker punishing her?

Galyan's eyse flicked to hers in astonishment. "How do you...?"

"What?" Cassandra shot back "because my primary weapon is the sword I should not have studied poetry or floriology?" But it fell flat. She wasn't angry or even annoyed, not really.

"Thakura is rather obscure, even you must admit." Galyan said, politically. "If one is going to quote a Seheran poet, it is usually Rumi. I frequently find Thakura misfiled if I find him at all."

"I should go," Cassandra said looking away from the red-brown hair that kissed his shoulders and the strap of beard gracing his chin. If she loked at him again, If he had the chance to become any more perfect, she was going to... do something very foolish.

Again.

She turned away but stopped when she felt his hand on her arm. "Cassandra," he said simply, waiting for her to meet his eyes. She hung her head, knowing what he would say, what he had said many times before.

"It is not your fault." he said when her eyes finally met his.

They'd had this conversation over and over, on paper and in person. "The Knight Commander and Revered Mother are at fault."

She had tried to explain it multiple times, but this man wasn't military. He argued against her rashness leading to Byron's death, saying that even if she had run as Byron wanted, that Frenic and his toadies were shape shifters. Running was not viable when your predator could not be outrun. 

For everything, he had an argument.

"You do not understand." Cassandra said somewhat stiffly. "You may never understand for one very important reason." she said more gently. "You aren't military. Regardless of whether the result would change, the fact is that I disobeyed a direct order from a superior." Cassandra fought for control of her emotions. A gasp tricked in though she kept control of her voice. "A soldier, a seeker, a knight does not disobey orders unless they are illegal. Byron knew we were outnumbered. He ordered me to run with him and in my rage, I did not have his back."

 _I should have been stripped of rank_ Cassandra fumed _instead, I was named hero and Byron did not walk away at all._

"Cassandra" he said gently "Had you been at his back, you too would be dead."

His eyes pleaded with her "And maker only knows what would have happened with the Chantry. To the mages. Not to mention," he smiled sweetly at her "I would never have met you."

Cassandra looked away from the man, a blush crawling up her features. 

"And I would be lesser for not knowing you." His eyes held until she looked back into them. She stood rooted to the spot, eyes searching his. She had not expected to be so drawn to a mage. She'd seen herself with someone like Byron, or Anthony, a soldier, a Templar, another seeker. Never a mage.

The girl she was, just two years previously would put a sword through her own heart rather than let it rest on somebody like this. She had wasted so many years hating the whole group for something just a few of them had done.

As a group, mages were physically under-developed, tending toward either chubbiness, or scrawniness due to sedentary lives of study. 

Cassandra, on the other hand likely seemed overdeveloped. She carried twenty two pounds of armor eight to sixteen hours a day and walked everywhere. Compared to the Chantry mothers, the left hand, and this man before her, Cassandra's muscles had muscles.

She had not expected to be drawn to this type. As the Marcher Poet Wilcox said she had 'looked for his coming as warriors come.' and instead... Well... the maker was... Ineffable.

She had to admit she was drawn to him. The longer she knew him, the more she was drawn, but it was not advisable for a seeker and a mage to... to what? Mages cannot marry. ...to be friends? Cassandra felt herself warming to a flush again and was glad of her dark skin ...to be more than friends? Was that even something she wanted? Something he wanted?

"I must go." Cassandra said, fear lighting a fire in her feet.

She was out the cemetery gate before her brain caught up withe her and she looked back. He held her flowers in his hand, drooping slightly, but re-arranging them for several minutes and then he knelt down and said something to Byron's headstone, placing them against it.

He stood there a while, head down, looking defeated. Then he turned and reached for the watering can. But not before she noticed a stalk of asphodel in his hand.

She was not the only one who felt responsible for Byron's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love's Coming  
> By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
> 
> She had looked for his coming as warriors come,  
> With the clash of arms and the bugle's call;  
> But he came instead with a stealthy tread,  
> Which she did not hear at all.
> 
> Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/loves-coming-by-ella-wheeler-wilcox
> 
> Floriology Notes:  
> Arborvitae - Everlasting friendship  
> Asphodel - My regrets follow you to the grave  
> Marigold - pain and grief  
> Red Poppies - sacrifice, remembrance  
> Rosemary - Remembrance  
> Rue - Regret, sorrow, repentance
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plant_symbolism  
> http://thelanguageofflowers.com/
> 
> And finally; The Roses are a bit out of place, they are considered Wedding Anniversary flowers. 1 year, Red and white roses. However i needed to mark time with more than just the year, and so i'm using them to mark the years since Byron's death and in a way, Cass and 'Galyan's Anniversary, since, we all know that mages cannot marry.
> 
> http://thelanguageofflowers.com/romance.html


	2. In the Dim Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Left Hand, a real spectacular guy, forces a confrontation with Cassandra about her "secret admirer".
> 
> Cassandra is reckless. Who is shocked?
> 
> I must warn you. This was written down about the time of the original #MeToo movement. I took one woman's publicized response to harassment to it's most poignant end and gave it to our girl, so if it looks familiar sans knife, that is why.

**Val Royeau, 29th Bloomingtide 9:23 Dragon**

Cassandra nodded at the Left hand. A loud and boisterous man in his seventies. She habitually kept a table between them although she was relatively certain that pressing her boot dagger to his gonads when he'd tried to pin her into a corner and stick his tongue in her mouth had made her point painfully clear.

Now he just sneered at her and called her "Princess". She made it a habit to clean her fingernails with the very same dagger whenever he did.

The meeting broke up and Cassandra scowled. He was a prig and a useless spy. Void, Cassandra of all people had seen the last assassin coming. A cunning little minx who boinked her way into his confidence. Luckily Cassandra had been quick enough to save the Most Holy and expose the bard.

And the damnable twerp-master was still maintaining her innocence. She must have been very good at keeping the old bastard feeling virile.

"Your Perfection, we cannot risk..." she turned to the Divine who stared at her own ringed fingers.

"Cassandra, Levian has earned his place with us."

_More like Levian's elven assistant has._ her eyes cut to the young man in question. The black eyed elf returned her gaze with a slight shake of his head.

Cassandra closed her mouth and the elf turned to follow the Spybastard to his office.

Once the Most Holy had retired, Cassandra cursed and paced the halls. The elderly divine was newly a devotee of the Antivan custom of siesta. Cassandra was barely twenty. She slept at night. For this reason she was near the seeker's entrance when the delivery came.

"Cassandra" Damon called her "You've had a delivery."

Her face must have given away her concern. "It tests clean." He told her, holding out a box that was rather longer than it was wide. It was a plain brown box, no makers mark, no label painted with professional skill telling of the source of the package. Nothing.

She had just foiled an assassination plot, she had reason to be concerned. Her eyes met Damon's

"Stand Ready" she said pulling her dagger from her boot. _Why do I even put it away._ she mused.

Carefully she cut through the string holding the box closed and inspected it. Nothing yet.

Heart in her throat and Lyrium Purge ready, Cassandra lifted the box apart and gasped.

Damon laughed.

Flowers. A carefully built bouquet was nestled in the paper lining the box.

"Secret Admirer?" Damon asked her.

Cassandra stared into the box. On a background of arborvitae was centered a feathering spray of tiny yellow asparagus flowers. Surrounding these were multiple sprays of different colored daisies and vividly purple gladiolus.

Peeking from the center of the asparagus flowers was a single purple mandevilla.

As a whole it spoke of a good friend, fascinated by qualities he ascribed to another. Strength of character, faith, loyalty, purity. The placement of the mandevilla suggested 'even the bad qualities'. The mandevilla told her it was about her though nothing spoke of the sender save fascination and friendship.

Even without a card or note, she knew who sent it. The arborvitae gave it away, not to mention that asparagus flowers were rarely found in florists shops. The flowers were a message, a declaration of some sort, from the only person she knew who had access to a hothouse and also spoke the symbolic language of flowers.

"Perhaps," Cassandra responded flashing a smirk at her old friend. "Or perhaps I ordered some posies for the Most Holy."

Damon looked pointedly at her knife but kept silent. He was a good friend. And she was due her privacy.

As her friend walked away, she gently picked up the arrangement, reveling in the cedar-like cent of the arborvitae and the gentle wild aromas of the larger flowers. She put them in a vase in her rarely used apartments and gently set them beside her bed, next to her latest acquisition. A serial novel called "Swords and Shields" by a new young author out of the Marches. So far it had been both terrible and oddly compelling.

The author had promise. Even if his premises were trite. Her hand hovered over the half finished book then she cursed, grabbed her weapons and stomped out to the training yard. Just because the Most Holy felt the need to nap didn't mean Cassandra did.

A hard workout would give her time to decide how she wished to respond.

About a week later, Cassandra was summoned to the Divine's presence. This was not abnormal, in fact, it occurred every few days when the Divine needed something dealt with between regular council meetings.

But when the guards were dismissed leaving only Cassandra, Levian and the Most Holy, it became worrisome.

Levian leaned back with a smug look, but said nothing, leaving the Divine to broach the subject.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes at the man, it was clearly sensitive. Her Perfection should not have been placed on the spot. Levian should have broached the subject.

"Cassandra, it has come to our attention," The Divine waved toward Levian "that you have been receiving flowers via the seeker's entrance."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow at Levian but kept her opinion to herself. She looked back at the Divine and nodded.

"We are concerned that someone is trying to..." Most Holy stopped and looked helplessly at Levian.

"Court me?" Cassandra supplied "Surely..."

"Influence you," Levian corrected. "you are very young and have far too much power for someone your age. Somebody might attack or manipulate you... There is never a card." His eyes told her there were things he wanted to say but was far to intelligent to do so.

Cassandra couldn't help it. She laughed. Her Perfection looked at Levian again then at Cassandra.

"You mean to say that some unknown party with an unknown agenda is trying to manipulate me." She finally gasped out "With flowers?"

"They could be... ensorceled" Levian said lamely.

She laughed again. It was that, or shout. Possibly beat the bastard senseless.

"So some unknown maleficar is sending me Gladiolus that are somehow infected with demons?" Tears were falling down her face. She stilled her laughter. The Divine did not deserve such disrespect.

She sat up straight and turned a look of pure disgust on the Left Hand. "You forget, Levian, that I am a seeker. I am immune to possession."

"Honey" Levian said, condescendingly "You do not even know who is sending them."

_Ah. That is the crux of it, then._

"No." Cassandra said, her voice rising "YOU do not know who is sending them. Just as you did not know that your former lover was using you in an attempt to kill the Divine."

"That is quite enough." Beatrix said stopping Cassandra from leaping before she thought.

"Cassandra, are you saying that you do know who it is?"

"I do, Your Perfection."

"Is he.. Or she I guess.. trying to manipulate you or to get to me?"

"Your Perfection," Cassandra said, not taking her eyes from Levian. "If he wished to hurt you, he has had ample opportunity. He would have to be playing a VERY long game. And as for manipulating me, how likely do you believe that to be, even given my tender age?" Cassandra regarded the Divine without blinking.

"Levian, please step outside while i speak to my Right Hand."

"I will find out who is trying to reach you, Princess" he threatened.

Cassandra shrugged, pulling her boot dagger and beginning to clean her nails again. "Be my guest."

He did not slam the door, but it was very close.  Cassandra immediately put the dagger away.

"It seems I owe you an apology, my Left Hand was worried that your secret admirer was a threat."

"All due respect, Your Perfection, but your Left hand couldn't find his ass with both hands. How hard is it to have my own couriers followed?"

The Divine's eyes were glinting like a child trying to wheedle a secret from her sister. "So you have sent notes back?"

Cassandra gasped in shock. Her stupid mouth. "Not... exactly."

"You sent back, what? something symbolic? flowers?"

"I don't..." Cassandra started to try to dissuade the Divine from this line of questioning, but then sighed "Yes." She tended to forget the formidable brain Most Holy had under her formidable hat.

"That's... rather romantic. And very Storm Age. Communicating by flower." the old woman sighed. "It reminds me of..." The Divine's face buttoned back up. "A time long past."

Cassandra also frequently forgot there was a woman under all the Chantry trappings.

The Divine's watery blue eyes searched her own. "You will not say who?"

"At this point," Cassandra admitted, realizing she meant it "I am uncertain WHAT." She shrugged. "For all I know, it's just two friends who realized they both spoke a rare language and wished to practice."

"Come now, my dear, don't be silly," the Divine smiled "Flowers never mean 'let's practice the language of flowers.'"

"Perhaps," Cassandra said

"Mmm." The Divine said, the gears of her formidable brain turning. "Someone who had ample opportunity?" she said.

Cassandra looked away, flustered.

"Someone I already know?"

"I have no reason to keep it from you, Your Perfection" Cassandra said.

"Someone with a Divine commendation moldering in his bureau?"

Cassandra flushed to her hairline. Even the Divine was a better interrogator than her left hand. She stared at her hands, clenched in her lap.

"You are right not to tell him." The Divine said "He has no love for mages. I will tell him to call off his dogs." The Divine said, regarding her seriously "But i doubt that he will. You hurt his pride laughing at him." Most Holy sighed. "I do wish you were a bit less... reckless." She shrugged "but if you were, I might be dead."

"I was not..."

"Not the only one who helped? Yes... I know." The pause extended "That is all I have right now, Cassandra."

Cassandra stood, somewhat off kilter from the discussion's strange direction. She bowed and turned to go.

"Cassandra," she turned to look back at the Divine.

"Yes, Your Perfection?"

"Be careful. Affairs of the heart are tricky and relationships are different within the circles. Talk to him, and not just with flowers."

"Yes, Your Perfection."

"And please, call me Beatrix."

"Yes, your..." Cassandra coughed, bowed and escaped the room at top speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,  
> As he rode like a prince to claim his bride:  
> In the sweet dim light of the falling night  
> She found him at her side.  
> \- Verse 2 of Love's Coming by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
> 
> Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/loves-coming-by-ella-wheeler-wilcox
> 
> Floriology Notes  
> Arborvitae - a declaration of friendship  
> Asparagus foliage - fascination  
> Daisies - Purity, Loyalty, and Faith  
> Purple Gladiolus - strength of character  
> Mandevilla - troublesome, reckless or thoughtless.

**Author's Note:**

> As much as i think there needs to be more Cass/Galyan SMUT in the world, I have tried and i suck at it. So... likely none in this one either. I leave it to the poets.
> 
> Anyway, kudos and comments are always welcome especially comments or suggestions of what missions Cassandra could go on. I have all the flowers and love story planned, what i don't have is any idea what sort of giving, taking, or fist making Cassandra might do for the divine.


End file.
